It had been an invitation Cullen was happy to accept. Like every time he went out with Fenris, or met him at his place, before leaving the house, he'd told himself that this time would be different. He wouldn't give in to impulse, wouldn't chase lyrium in the worst kind of dishonesty.

It was harder every time. The more Fenris opened to him and spoke of his past, shared his candor and affection, the worse he felt when things took an inevitable turn. It was why they didn't unless he was intoxicated, and why he avoided getting intoxicated with him most of the time.

Tonight not drinking would have been far more obvious than going with the flow. The wine was good, the stories better, and he in turn told some tales of hunting apostates and blood mages up and down the Wounded Coast. Of everyone he knew, he doubted anyone could appreciate that more. That was pain, too, in its own way.

His head was spinning so much that he was astonished he was still upright. It took longer than it should to fully register what was happening, Fenris warm and taut in his lap, his hand in his hair its own intoxication.

He pressed a sloppy kiss to that damnably perfect mouth and murmured, "I wouldn't want you thinking it's all I'm ever after." Twisted truth. Somehow it felt better than a complete lie.